


a garland of roses (the vibrant flesh)

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Courtship, Developing Relationship, M/M, Medical Procedures, Misunderstandings, Romance, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:25:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romances don’t often start over burnt flesh and fresh green blood, but this one does. [Abandoned]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> The title stems from the poem _Blinddarm_ (appendectomy) by the German poet Gottfried Benn, who was a doctor as well as a writer and is known for his grotesque, cynical poems that show his sober, medical point of view of the world. You can read some of his poetry in English translation here.
> 
> (Please note: this fic contains semi-graphic descriptions of serious injuries due to a explosion/fire.)

The explosion takes Spock by surprise, but he is not so shocked as to forego common sense. As the senior officer and head scientist, he immediately sees it as his responsibility to make sure emergency protocol is adhered to.  
  
There are hot flames and black smoke interfering with his vision and the explosion has shortened out the lighting in the windowless laboratory. The only light source are the flickering flames quickly gaining in intensity.  
  
The emergency sirens blare loudly, alerting everyone in vicinity to the fire. Spock can assume that the laboratory building will be evacuated according to emergency plans. This leaves him with making sure that the staff present in his laboratory at the time of the explosion leaves also, quickly and as safely as possible.  
  
His inner eyelids help him withstand the bite of the smoke and pieces of ash floating in the air, but even as a Vulcan built to stand extreme heat, he is not invincible when it comes to fire. Open flames and toxic fumes can cause injury to him as much as to a Human.  
  
He takes a few seconds to take control of his bodily functions and shut down his breathing, knowing he can go without oxygen for 5.8 minutes before passing out. Then, he makes his way through the smoke to the spot in which he has last seen one of his assistants, Ensign Chaisawas.  
  
The petite woman lies motionlessly on the ground, about four meters from where she last worked on her station. The blast must have thrown her backwards and away from her workplace. Her skin and hair is badly burnt. Spock assumes that it was her station that caused the explosion, although he is unsure as to what exactly happened as of yet.  
  
It is obvious the ensign is unconscious, so Spock does not bother talking to her. Instead, he extinguishes the flames lapping at her hair with carefully placed swats and uses his Vulcan strength to throw her effortlessly over his shoulder.  
  
With Ensign Chaisawas accounted for, it leaves Spock with the task of locating Lieutenants Zitter and Bay. As Zitter’s station is located directly next to the exit, Spock can assume that she left the laboratory almost immediately. This leaves Bay, who Spock knows to have been farther in the back of the room gathering supplies, where the flames have not yet reached.  
  
Spock strides quickly forward through the smoke, shouting Bay’s name repeatedly until the air still stored in his lungs expires. The man stumbles into him a moment later, making Spock sway very slightly with the heavy impact. The lieutenant is coughing violently, but does not appear otherwise injured.  
  
Seeing the panic on the man’s sooted face, Spock engulfs his upper arm in a strong grip and pushes him towards the exit.  
  
Just as they make it to the door, another explosion sends a new wave of hot flames through the entire room. Spock pushes Bay forward into the hallway and shifts Chaisawas into his arms to protect her. This leaves his own back to take the full brunt of the flames and heat pushing through the exit.  
  
Spock immediately knows that he has been badly burnt, but his body is still able to walk and carry the ensign, so he continues after sealing the lab with a few touches on the console. This will keep the flames contained a bit longer. Emergency personnel will be able to override the lock upon arrival.  
  
Lieutenant Bay runs down the hallway and away from the clouds of smoke lingering in the air. As they approach the exit leading outside, Spock spots Lieutenant Zitter waiting by the door, letting others pass as she looks towards them.  
  
“Oh God,” she says with her eyes fixed on the ensign in Spock’s arm. “Quick, outside. The medics have to be here any minute.”  
  
A logical conclusion, given the volume of the alarm and the efficiency of a closed campus with all specialists close-by. Zitter holds the door open and Bay stumbles outside first, taking gasping breaths that turn into another coughing fit. Clearly, the Lieutenant has inhaled too much smoke.  
  
Spock also takes a breath as he leaves the building, filling his lungs with fresh oxygen as he carries the ensign a few more meters. He then settles her carefully onto the grass outside the laboratory building. Her back seems mostly uninjured, but in the front, her flesh and hair is badly burnt. In the sunlight, it looks worse than Spock had assumed it to be in the hazy light of the smoke-filled room. Spock is not a qualified healer, but the ensign’s chances of survival seem slim, deteriorating with every minute medical assistance does not arrive.  
  
Given its military-like structures, Starfleet is an efficient body, however. After 2.3 minutes, a small ambulance hovercar approaches them on the grass. The onlookers, who have spent the last moments either shouting or purposelessly looking at the laboratory building, part as it hovers close. Spock steps aside also and the two medics immediately approach Ensign Chaisawas.  
  
Confident that they will do the work they have been trained for, Spock allows his body to show the weakness he has pushed aside for the past moments. His knees buckle and he slips to the ground a few meters away from Chaisawas’ burnt form. He now notices that his ears are ringing, undoubtedly in response to the noise that had accompanied the blast. His back is throbbing with pain. He does not allow the sensations to overwhelm him, however, keeping them at bay with Vulcan discipline.  
  
Lieutenant Zitter is beside him almost immediately. “Commander, your back! You’ve been burnt,” she states the obvious, her voice far from the confident and methodical cadence Spock appreciates in the laboratory.  
  
“Affirmative,” Spock agrees. “However, as my injuries are not as severe as those of Ensign Chaisawas, it is logical to give precedence to her.”  
  
Zitter does not respond to that, only stays by his side until another ambulance arrives. As he is carefully guided into the back of the vehicle by the medics, he observes Starfleet emergency responders enter the building with fire-extinguishing gear.  
  
Spock is taken to Starfleet Medical alongside Lieutenant Bay, who is made to breathe through an inhalation device as Spock’s back is being looked at. The paramedics conclude that there is little to be done about his burns without better equipment at hand. It is also clear they are not very familiar with Vulcan physiology and wary to do anything more invasive.  
  
Spock is asked to lay down on his stomach on a hover stretcher. At Starfleet Medical, he is guided into an examination room. A nurse immediately runs a tricorder over him, then transfers him carefully onto the padded examination table with the help of one of the paramedics.  
  
Is it not until he hears an unfamiliar voice shouting orders that he realizes that Doctor M’Benga, his primary physician at Starfleet due to his residency on Vulcan, is not necessarily on this morning’s shift.  
  
“Nurse, identify the patient and hand me that tricorder,” the unfamiliar doctor says as he approaches with heavy footfalls. As Spock is still lying on his stomach and his head is facing the wall, he cannot look at the man, only listen with his cheek pressed into the cot.  
  
“Commander Spock, Vulcan-Human-hybrid, second and third degree burns on at least six percent of his body, slight trauma to the auditory system,” the nurse rattles off, then continues to give all relevant medical data regarding Spock’s person.  
  
The doctor stays quiet until the nurse has finished. Spock can hear the sound of gloves being snapped on and then, the unfamiliar man is addressing him directly.  
  
“Commander, do you need something for the pain?”  
  
“I am able to maintain an endurable level of sensation through mental discipline,” Spock says. His voice is not a firm as he prefers, but it is adequate for the occasion.  
  
The doctor lets out a mutter that Spock is fairly sure involves the words _Vulcan_ and _voodoo_. The continuous ringing in his ears makes it hard to decipher. He also has no time to question it, as in the next second he is overwhelmed by a wave of pain after all. He cannot control the sharp gasp slipping past his lips as the doctor touches his back.  
  
“Sorry, Commander,” the man says. “But we need to get the bits of uniform out of this mess and clean you up before we can go anywhere near regenerating the skin. You still fine with the pain?”  
  
It is illogical to pretend to be in control when one is not, so Spock says: “A form of pain relief would indeed be welcome at this time.”  
  
The doctor gives orders to the nurse and a moment later, a hypospray is pressed into Spock’s neck. His back goes numb after 15.2 seconds and Spock feels his body relax on the exam table.  
  
“Better,” the doctor says, as if he felt the relief himself. “Now, while Nurse Chapel and I are busy tweezing melted pieces of fabric off your back, why don’t you tell us what the hell happened to you?”  
  
Spock knows this is the doctor’s way to make sure that Spock is alert and conscious of his surroundings, not Human curiosity, so he obliges. “We were working on an experiment with several samples of alien rock. An unexpected reaction I cannot yet explain in detail caused an explosion and the laboratory caught on fire.”  
  
“How many people in the lab?”  
  
“Four, counting myself. The two assigned lieutenants did not seem gravely hurt. However, an ensign assisting me with the project has been severely injured. ”  
  
“Burns?”  
  
“Affirmative, doctor. I believe the ensign to be in highly critical condition, although I am far from a medical expert.”  
  
“Damn.” The doctor sounds an intriguing mix of dismayed and angry.  
  
As Spock does not know what else to add, he falls silent. He answers a few more questions from the nurse about possible allergies and any overreactions to regeneration processes. Then, the sounds of tweezers cease, replaced by the hum of a regenerator starting up.  
  
“Commander, Nurse Chapel will give you two shots to prevent infection, then start a basic regeneration process. The burns on your legs are mostly superficial, but your back’s more severe. We can’t do it all in one go. These kinds of burns take time to heal. We might be able to release you with bandages in place, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow. ”  
  
“I understand, doctor.”  
  
“Good. Seems Vulcans make for compliant patients.” Before Spock can comment on the odd statement, the doctor gives the nurse further instructions and is gone. The nurse prepares two more hyposprays and injects them.  
  
“This should take at least twenty minutes,” she says and the hum of the regenerator intensifies as it is most likely worked over Spock’s back first. Due to the administered medicine, he cannot analyze the process with his usual precision. “Just relax, Commander.”  
  
As there is nothing Spock can do to help with the process, he slips in the lightest form of meditation. A healing trance is too deep, and unnecessary at this point.  
  
When he comes to himself, the regenerator has been switched off. “What is the status of my treatment, nurse?” he asks.  
  
“Finishing the bandages, Commander. You’ll be able to get up in a couple of minutes.”  
  
Indeed, Spock is allowed to sit up 2.9 minutes later. The nurse, identified by the doctor as Nurse Chapel, is a blonde Human of tall and slender build, the very same who had helped transfer him onto the table when he first arrived.  
  
“Thank you, nurse.” Spock knows it is considered polite on Earth to show gratitude even in the face of someone merely doing their duty.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she says, showing white teeth as she smiles at him. “Doctor McCoy was quite right, you’ve been a rather easy patient. No wiggling or complaining.”  
  
“That would have been illogical,” Spock tells her and oddly, she laughs.  
  
“Yes, quite right, Commander. Now, just sit tight for a few more moments until the doctor returns and then we’ll see about sending you home until tomorrow.”  
  
She leaves after placing a last note on the PADD which she attaches to the examination table and handing Spock a fresh set of non-descriptive Starfleet blacks to change into. Spock foregoes the shirt for now, sure that the doctor will want to have another look at his back.  
  
The doctor, McCoy according to the nurse, does not return for another 23.5 minutes. When he arrives, he is clearly stressed. There are deep frown lines displayed on his forehead and his mouth is curled into an unhappy twist.  
  
Spock notices that the man is fit, as required by Starfleet regulations but not always adhered to by all staff. While his hair is in slight disarray, he seems clean and organized. He is also wearing a set of cadet scrubs without any rank markers, which is quite interesting. There are not a lot of cadets who are fully qualified doctors with authority over nurses and full patient treatment.  
  
“Commander,” he says as he pulls up a stool equipped with small wheels, taking up the PADD Nurse Chapel abandoned. Spock notices a few traces of his own green blood on the doctor’s right sleeve. “How’re you feeling now?”  
  
“Adequate,” Spock tells him honestly. The medication is still numbing the pain and he is suffering from no other ailments besides the ringing in his ears, which has already started to subside.  
  
“Is that Vulcan for good, or abysmal?” McCoy asks, throwing Spock a sceptical look over the PADD.  
  
By now somewhat used to imprecise Human expressions, Spock refrains from pointing out that he is currently speaking Standard, not Golic. “I believe a common Human idiom would be ‘as good as can be expected under the circumstances’.”  
  
“I see,” the doctor says. He notes something on the PADD, then rolls closer to the exam table. “How are your ears doing?”  
  
“If you are referring to my auditory perception, a slight ringing noise is still audible but has already decreased by approximately 24.5%.”  
  
“Approximately, huh?” McCoy’s lips twitch upwards very briefly. “That sounds good. Not much we can do about it unless there is actual physical damage that needs to be mended. If the noises haven’t sorted themselves out by tomorrow, let me know at once.” The doctor pauses, looking at the PADD and frowning slightly. “Now, the rest of your readings look fine for a Vulcan, but as you’re a hybrid, I’m not sure I can rely on them. You having any trouble breathing? Scratchy throat, any swelling?”  
  
“I was careful not to inhale any smoke,” Spock informs him.  
  
“Aren’t you a smart one.” Spock is not sure whether that statement holds some hidden offense or a compliment. It seems Doctor McCoy is one of the more cryptic Human specimen. “How about your eyes? They stinging, burning, anything of that sort?”  
  
“Negative. My nictitating membranes have protected them from any damage, I believe.”  
  
McCoy hums, makes some more notes. Then, he puts down the PADD and raises his hands towards Spock’s face. They are bare and Spock stiffens immediately. He opens his mouth to protest, but the doctor is already retreating.  
  
“Sorry,” he is saying, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, don’t have many touch telepaths on my normal roster. This shift’s been too long if I’m slacking this bad.”  
  
He moves to a nearby cabinet and, after a short moment, retrieves a pair of white lint gloves from a drawer. Doctor M’Benga has come to prefer the very same kind when he is not dealing with open wounds and still has to touch Spock directly.  
  
“How long has your shift been, if I may ask?” he asks as McCoy approaches him once more.  
  
McCoy presents him with a smile that even Spock can identify as unhappy. “Well, I was scheduled to be done at 0700, now it’s 1100 and there’s no end in sight.”  
  
He carefully places his fingers on Spock’s jaw, his thumbs digging lightly into the cheeks. Spock can tell he is being extra-careful to avoid any psi-points and is gratified that the doctor is clearly trying not to succumb to any more ‘slacking’.  
  
“That does not seem like a logical approach,” he says as McCoy turns his head towards the bright light he ordered on and inspects his eyes. “Humans require rest at regular intervals to retain peak efficiency.”  
  
“From your lips to the chief’s ears.” Before Spock can ask after the exact meaning behind the odd statement, he is asked to tilt his head and open his mouth. McCoy pears inside, carefully prodding at Spock’s neck and throat as he does so. “Seems fine to me. Just let me have one more look at your back and then you should be free to go.”  
  
The doctor stands and walks around the table to inspect the bandages, then returns to the front to look at Spock directly. He seems satisfied with the current state.  
  
“You can leave, but I want you to rest, you hear me? If you like, I can have the nurses give you two shots to take home for the pain. Either way, I want you back here tomorrow for the next round of regeneration, 1000 sharp.”  
  
“Yes, doctor.”  
  
This time, there is nothing unhappy about McCoy’s smile. “You really make for a great patient,” he says. “No complaints, no arguments.”  
  
Spock blinks at him. “Is that so unusual?”  
  
The doctor snorts. “Believe me, most doctors would kill for patients with such easy compliance, Commander.”  
  
“As I have no medical background, it is only logical to accept your authority where my health is concerned.”  
  
McCoy’s smile turns into a wide grin. Spock notices that the frown lines disappear completely, making space for other, softer wrinkles. “Bless you and your logic, Commander.”  
  
He hands Spock a second, smaller PADD with instructions where to bring it and pick up the hyposprays, then leaves with a quick goodbye.  
  
Spock allows himself precisely ten seconds to look after him with raised eyebrows before complying with the doctor’s instructions.


	2. II

The assumption that Vulcans do not make mistakes is wrong.  
  
Vulcans, like all sentient creatures, can err. However, it is their goal in life to weigh all known facts carefully, to calculate risks and outcomes, to live and act in such a precise manner that the margin for error is small.  
  
Sometimes, it is still not small enough.  
  
Spock’s peers as well as his superiors are quick to tell him that he is not to blame for the fire, that it was an accident, nothing that could reasonably be expected. The alien rock had contained a highly flammable gas as of yet unknown and thus gone undetected by Spock and his staff. It had reacted quickly and violently to one of the stages in their experiment and caused the unexpected explosion.  
  
He knows he has adhered to protocol, both before and after the tragedy. Still, he takes responsibility for what happened. It seems very much like his duty, especially in the face of Ensign Chaisawas wrapped in numerous bandages and lying unconsciously on a biobed in the intensive care ward. Her small body is surrounded by a blue, shimmering regeneration field. A few family members are gathered around her, looking exhausted or sleeping in uncomfortable positions.  
  
He is only allowed a brief look through the viewscreen before he is asked to leave again. He does, but cannot deny that it is difficult to let the ensign’s fate not affect him in any way. She is young, a mere twenty-three Terran years old. Spock is aware that she was hoping for a chance to pursue a PhD in petrology after gaining some more experience in the field.  
  
On the ground floor of Starfleet Medical, he is called into an examination room at 1008 and is not surprised to see Doctor McCoy waiting for him. Spock has made inquiries and now knows that Doctor M’Benga is scheduled to perform several complex surgeries in Mombasa and therefore unavailable for the rest of the week. It seems logical that Doctor McCoy sees to his full recovery in his place.  
  
“Commander,” he greets Spock with a tired salute. He looks as stressed as the day before. It is clear he has still not gotten enough rest. There are dark shadows underneath his eyes, proof of his ongoing fatigue.  
  
“Doctor McCoy,” Spock replies.  
  
“How’s the hearing?”

  
 “The ringing sound has vanished as of this morning, 0813,” Spock informs him and receives a satisfied nod. He is asked to remove his shirt and lie prone on the exam table, once more facing the wall.  
  
It is clear McCoy is seeing to the regeneration process himself today. It seems a waste of his time to leave the mundane task of removing the bandages and holding the sensor in place to him, so Spock decides to comment on it.  
  
“Given your busy schedule, does it not make more sense to have a nurse take over this task?”  
  
There’s an edge to the doctor’s voice when he asks: “Taken by the good Nurse Chapel’s charm, Commander?”  
  
Spock stiffens on the table. He understands the implications in that statement well enough. “You are being inappropriate, doctor.”  
  
“Only because you want to get rid of me,” McCoy retorts, clearly unfazed by Spock’s criticism.  
  
“I was not trying to convey that your presence is a nuisance. I am merely remembering the comment you made about the vast amount of work expected of you and the need to repeatedly stay past the end of your assigned shift.”  
  
“And that’s precisely why I’m doing this,” McCoy says. “I’ve got the door closed and my hands busy, chances are I’m not going to be bothered as long as I’m healing your skin. Makes for a nice break, if you ask me.”  
  
Spock cannot quite see the logic in that, as the doctor is still doing work. He tells him so and is confronted with a short laugh not unlike a Terran dog’s bark.  
  
“And here I was, thinking you were an easy patient, Commander.”  
  
“I apologize if I have caused you additional stress,” Spock hurries to say.  
  
McCoy, oddly enough, pats his shoulder with a gloved hand. “Don’t you worry, you’re still my favorite of the week.”  
  
Spock does not know how to take that statement, and so he stays silent. He listens to the humming of the regenerator until McCoy once more raises his voice. “The girl in the intensive ward, Chaisawas I think. She’s yours, I take it?”  
  
Spock wonders if McCoy has just breached a confidentiality agreement, but lets it pass. He already knows of the ensign’s state, after all. “My assistant, yes.”  
  
“She took the brunt?”  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
McCoy hesitates. “You know what caused the fire yet?”  
  
“An as of yet unknown form of highly inflammable gas contained within the rock samples we were working with. I did not detect it during my initial screenings and thus did not set special protocols to avoid sudden combustion.”  
  
“You sound like you’re blaming yourself, Commander.”  
  
Spock gives into the need to swallow, even though there is no excess saliva collecting in his mouth. “As the senior officer and overseer of the experiment, I accept full responsibility for yesterday’s events.”  
  
McCoy mumbles something not even Spock’s superior hearing can pick up on, then adds in an intelligible volume: “She’s pretty strong, quite a sturdy little thing really. If she wakes up tonight, she’ll make it. And plastic surgery can do wonders these days, even with burns as severe as hers. She’ll be right as rain, if she pulls through today.”  
  
This time, Spock sees the need to point out: “Are you not breaching doctor-patient confidentiality by telling me this?”  
  
“Probably,” McCoy admits much too freely. “But I thought it might do you good to hear it. That there’s hope for her. Make you feel better about it.”  
  
“Vulcans do not feel,” Spock informs him sharply.  
  
“Is that so?” McCoy replies. “My apologies, Commander.”  
  
He falls silent and Spock keeps quiet also, observing the wall until the hum of the regenerator fades away.  
  
“This looks good. One more round tomorrow and you’ll be done, I think.”  
  
Spock is unsure, but the doctor sounds more distant than before. Less friendly. He wonders if he has somehow managed to offend the man. He finds that the thought is not a pleasant one.  
  
Once a fresh dressing has been applied, Spock is allowed to sit up once more. McCoy seems very busy with his PADD, staring intensely at the screen as he adds some data. Spock curls his fingers around the edge of the exam table.  
  
“I have said something to upset you,” he finds himself saying.  
  
“Not at all.” McCoy looks up at him briefly, offers the smallest of smiles. “Just have to remember my _Intro to Xenoculture_ classes every once in a while.”  
  
“While I cannot fully condone your breach of confidentiality, I am able to appreciate the motivation behind your actions, no matter their redundancy.”  
  
“Redundancy,” McCoy repeats, frowning again. “No need to become nasty, you know?”  
  
“I have offended you again,” Spock says with a sense of loss.  
  
“Well, I’m sure I’ve offended you right back at least twice or so. I say we’re even.” The doctor hesitates, blinking as he tilts his head at Spock. “I haven’t met a lot of Vulcans yet. Really, you’re the first I’ve properly spoken to. I’m sure M’Benga’s much more qualified in that regard.”  
  
“Doctor M’Benga has ample experience with Vulcans, yes. However, I also found your tendance to be quite adequate.”  
  
“Adequate?” McCoy repeats, incredulity in his voice.  
  
“Quite adequate, yes.”  
  
For a moment, it looks like the doctor will use the PADD in his hands to strike Spock with it. Then, his body relaxes as he breaks into spontaneous laughter.  
  
“Now you’re just messing with me,” he says and rubs at his eyes. They have watered, Spock notices. McCoy must indeed be very tired.  
  
“You require rest,” Spock says, because it seems like he needs a reminder.  
  
“Tell me about it. It’s just hard to get enough sleep if you’ve gotten stuck with shifts at the hospital and a full class load, you know?”  
  
Spock inclines his head, once more taking in the cadet scrubs the doctor is wearing. “If I may ask, how did you come to be a cadet at your age? You are a fully qualified doctor, but not of rank.”  
  
“Late to the party.” McCoy runs a hand through his dark hair, disordering it slightly. “It’s complicated.”  
  
“I am quite capable of dealing with the complex.”  
  
McCoy laughs again. It is rather fascinating how his harsh face softens so much when he does it. Spock is also not used to being amusing to Humans, not without sensing that he himself is being ridiculed.  
  
“I’m sure you are. Maybe, I can explain it to you some other time.” The statement sounds casual, but there is something in McCoy’s focused gaze that makes Spock hesitate.  
  
“Perhaps tomorrow?” he ventures carefully. “You said I needed another round of regeneration.”  
  
McCoy’s shoulders inexplicably slump. “Oh. Well, yes. I won’t be on shift until 1500 though.”  
  
“Then I shall make an appointment at that time.”  
  
McCoy straightens up again and smiles as he dismisses him. Spock thinks he has managed to turn this conversation around after all. How he has managed, though, he is not quite sure.  
  
That night, Spock finds himself looking up Doctor McCoy in the Starfleet databases. He scrolls through the files available to him as an instructor and ends up not only learning the doctor’s full name and age, but the title of his dissertation on a new surgical procedure for the humanoid brain. Intrigued, Spock downloads it and reads it in the matter of an hour.  
  
It is intelligent and really very fascinating. Rather like the man himself, Spock has found.


	3. III

“You can go right in, Commander,” a very cheery Nurse Chapel tells Spock when he steps up to the triage room reception the next day. “You’re his first today.”  
  
Even though he finds her bright smile to be slightly disturbing, Spock thanks her and seeks out the by now familiar room. He enters, only to stop short when he sees that it is already occupied, and not only by McCoy.  
  
“... stop being such a baby about it,” the doctor is saying, voice harsher than it had ever been with Spock.  
  
A young blond in cadet reds is resting on the examination table, looking annoyed. “Well, maybe if you worked on your bedside manner, it wouldn’t hurt so damn much!”  
  
“Hyposprays aren’t needles,” McCoy grouses. Spock can only see the back of his head, but his voice speaks of the scowl that must be evident on his face. “What you’re crying about is slight discomfort!”  
  
“I don’t -- oh. Um, Bones?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We’ve got an audience.”  
  
McCoy turns on his chair and indeed, he is scowling. The unfriendly expression slips off his face when he notices Spock, making space for surprise, then a small smile.  
  
“Commander Spock,” he says with a nod. “Sorry about this. Bit of an emergency here.”  
  
“I was under the impression you were expecting me. I shall inform Nurse Chapel that you are still busy and return when you are no longer occupied.” Spock starts to turn on the spot, but McCoy is shaking his head.  
  
“No, stay. We’re done now.” With that, McCoy turns and the hypospray that has been resting in his hand until now is pushed quickly and efficiently against the cadet’s neck.  
  
“Ouch! What the fuck, Bones?” the cadet wails in what is obvious betrayal, rubbing his neck.  
 “Quit whining and get out of here, I have actual patients to treat. And stop eating Andorian fruit salads if you’re not sure what’s in them! You’ve got allergies, you moron. Take some responsibility for yourself.”  
  
The cadet makes an unhappy face but dutifully slips off the examination table. Spock can see redness around his eyes and what looks like slight swelling in his throat and hands.  
  
“Sorry,” he says. “And thanks. Really.”  
  
Spock notices one hand curling around the doctor’s right shoulder, brushing down his arm before it slips away. A gesture of familiarity, even among humans. McCoy nods and waves the man away impatiently with a grumbled goodbye, but he gently pats the cadet’s waist as he walks by.  
  
The cadet snaps a smart salute at Spock in passing, clearly noting his rank and the instructor’s uniform. He’s grinning, taking Spock in with bright eyes and assessing his form before he leaves with a last wave for McCoy.  
  
“Sorry about that, Commander,” McCoy repeats his earlier apology as he pushes a button on the edge of the table. Spock waits until it has been sterilized by the brief breeze of sonic energy, then settles down in front of McCoy.  
  
“A friend of yours?” he asks. He is not usually one to engage in what Humans have termed ‘small talk’, but he finds himself interested in spite of himself.  
  
“My insufferable roommate Jim,” McCoy replies, scowling as he discards the empty hypospray still clutched in his hand. “A million allergies, and no sense of self-preservation. You’d think he’d learned his lesson by now. He’ll be the death of me, let me tell you. I feel like all I do in my freetime is worry about him.”  
  
Spock has yet to fully grasp all nuances of Human emotion, but it is quite obvious that beneath the snarl, McCoy is fond of this Jim. Very fond.  
  
“Nurse Chapel was not aware that you were in here treating him,” Spock says.  
  
McCoy huffs. “Yeah, Jim has a talent for sneaking in and out of places without anyone seeing.” He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. More fondness, Spock thinks. Why that thought should cause him discomfort, he does not know. Maybe, it is the blatant emotionalism of it. “Now, how are you doing, Commander?”  
  
“I believe my back is healing adequately. I had no further need of pain medication.”  
  
McCoy nods and after a few more questions, Spock is asked to discard of his shirt and lie down again. The last round of regeneration finishes more quickly than the others and soon, McCoy is switching the machine off and tells him to get dressed. Clearly, there will be no more bandages today.  
  
“You were lucky,” McCoy tells him. “That, and your hybrid skin has some crazy regeneration affinity, let me tell you that. I’ll have to make a note for M’Benga. It’s really interesting.”  
  
“I am relieved?” Spock asks and it sounds stiff even to his own ears. He still finds himself thinking about McCoy’s roommate, the fond touches shared between them.  
  
“Well, yes,” McCoy says, but he’s looking at Spock oddly. “You should be careful to keep the skin hydrated for a few more days. Any moisturizing creme should work. Other than that, come back if you’re feeling unwell or something seems off.”  
  
“Thank you,” Spock says curtly and stands. “Good day, doctor.”  
  
He is already near the door when McCoy calls: “Spock!”  
  
Spock turns, surprised. McCoy has gotten up from the chair and abandoned the PADD in favor of stretching out an arm as if to catch Spock.  
  
“Commander,” he amends and lowers his arm, then shakes his head again. “Look, maybe I’ve been imagining things, but I thought -- well.”  
  
“I am unsure what you are trying to say,” Spock says when no further explanation is given.  
  
McCoy rubs a hand over his face, scowls at the floor, then looks at Spock directly. His eyes are searching, as if he is hoping to see something specific in Spock’s features. “I haven’t done this in forever. Well, not since my divorce … which you don’t need to hear about now, sorry. What I’m trying to say is--” He stops again, sighs in clear frustration. “Hell, I thought we had a-- a thing. Chemistry of some sort. And I was going to invite you for a cup of coffee. Have a chat. But now I’m not sure if I’ve imagined things.”  
  
Spock blinks at the doctor for precisely 3.8 seconds. “Coffee,” he repeats, for all intents and purposes struck dumb.  
  
“Or the Vulcan equivalent,” McCoy amends. Spock notices his fingers curl nervously by his sides. “Whatever that might be.”  
  
“Vulcans do not consume caffeinated drinks,” Spock says, because he does not know what else to say. He knows what the doctor has just proposed is a common Terran courting ritual, but it is so unlike anything that has ever happened to him, he is unsure how to react.  
  
“Oh,” McCoy says and something in his face shuts down. He averts his eyes. Spock thinks he can detect a faint pink blush on his cheeks. “I apologize, Commander. I guess I was-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”  
  
Spock feels his heart thump in his side. He is doing this wrong. McCoy feels rejected and like Spock is not interested, when really he has spent several hours last night researching and reading every medical paper the man has ever written and published.  
  
A conversation outside an examination room would be most -- beneficial.  
  
“You misunderstand,” Spock manages finally. “I am not uncomfortable. I am in fact amenable to your request of ‘having a chat’.”  
  
McCoy’s sudden smile seems like a gift, any traces of misery or unease gone. “Oh, good! Great.” He clears his throat, twice. “How about the weekend? I’m mostly free on Saturday.”  
  
Spock quickly reviews his own schedule in his head. “I teach an additional tutorial on Saturday mornings, but I am free after 1200.”  
  
“Great. 1215 then. How about we meet up at the _Kelvin_ memorial stone?”  
  
It is not an uncommon meeting point, right at the outer edge of the Northern campus. “I will be there. Until then, doctor.”  
  
“Until then.”  
  
Spock turns, but not without noticing the spring in McCoy’s step as he returns to his chair and buzzes the reception for his next patient. If Spock were fully Human, he might display the same amount of exuberance.


	4. IV

Lieutenants Zitter and Bay seek him out during office hours on Friday, asking after his injuries and what is to become of their experiment. As several samples of rock have been retained, Spock has requested approval for continuation of the experiment with adjusted safety protocols. He has not yet requested a new assistant, however. Although it is not an entirely logical choice, both Zitter and Bay voice understanding as he tells them so.  
  
Neither of them have suffered serious injuries in the fire, just as Spock expected. They inform him that Ensign Chaisawas has indeed woken and seems to be slowly improving. Spock agrees to a joint visit in the following week and is informed that it is a common Earth ritual to bring specimen of flora as a gesture of well-wishing.  
  
On Saturday, he spends three hours trying to explain the finer points of Vulcan botany and zoology to a group of first year cadets of dubious mental capacities. Afterwards, there is just enough time to switch out of his uniform and into less official clothes before the casual meeting with Doctor McCoy. Spock does not own a lot of civilian clothes, and most of it is of Vulcan design which he avoids wearing on Earth. Some of the curious looks he receives when he is wearing his robes are not exactly settling.  
  
He chooses straight black pants and a light grey dress shirt his mother has told him looked adequate on him. When he had first moved to Earth, she had taken him shopping -- a fond memory, Spock can freely admit in the privacy of his own mind. After straightening his bangs, Spock chooses a quick pace and arrives at the _Kelvin_ memorial precisely at 1215.  
  
McCoy is already waiting. Humans do not generally tend to be so punctual. Spock appreciates that the doctor seems to deviate from that norm.  
  
“Doctor,” Spock greets him as he steps up next to him.  
  
McCoy is also wearing civilian clothes -- blue jeans and a black shirt. The clothes make his physical fitness much more obvious than the medical scrubs Spock has known on him so far. He looks less tired today, though not precisely well-rested. A hint of purple under his eyes speaks of his busy schedule.  
  
“It’s Leonard. Or Len, if you like.”  
  
Spock nods, satisfied that the doctor -- Leonard -- has offered him his given name. “Thank you. As you already know, I am called Spock.”  
  
There’s a brief pause, then Leonard smiles. “I have a place in mind,” he says. “Bit further away, but it’s not just Starfleet people there, which makes for a nice change.”  
  
“That sounds adequate.”  
  
The first few moments of walking pass in silence. Spock observes Leonard’s fingers curling by his side. Spock’s own are laced together behind his back, just as usual. Leonard’s eyes are darting back and forth between the street before them and Spock’s form. Finally, he speaks up: “So, how was your tutorial?”  
  
“As it mainly consists of students in need of additional tutelage, it was a rather tiring experience,” Spock says in all honesty.  
  
Leonard smiles. “Not everyone can be a genius.”  
  
“Indeed not. However, I doubt you were in need of additional tutoring during your time at the University of Mississippi.”  
  
There is a moment in which Leonard gapes at Spock, actually slowing his pace to stare at him. When he resumes his earlier pace to catch up with Spock, he is shaking his head. “You’ve been looking me up!” he says, and it sounds like a sort of accusation.  
  
Spock blinks. As a Vulcan, he greatly respects the need for privacy. However, accessing data that is officially available on a database does not seem very invasive. “Should I not have?”  
  
Leonard blinks, then shrugs. “Well, it’s sort of flattering, I have to admit.” He throws a curious look at Spock. “Anything interesting? You like what you saw?”  
  
“It was most enlightening,” Spock admits. “I have found your medical research and papers to be quite fascinating.”  
  
“You’ve read my papers?”  
  
Spock is getting the distinct impression that he has done something very unusual. “All available ones, yes. Your dissertation was especially interesting.”  
  
Leonard laughs in that dry way Spock has not quite heard from other Humans before. “My dissertation. Gee, that thing’s hundreds of pages long.”  
  
“None of them superfluous.”  
  
“High praise from a Vulcan!”  
  
Spock tilts his head. “Is it not from everyone?”  
  
Leonard laughs, then launches into a question specific to his paper, asking Spock’s opinion on some of the gathered data. Soon, they have delved into a very stimulating conversation about the Humanoid brain and how it diverges from that of Vulcanoids. Spock barely pays attention to them arriving at the little café and only interrupts their talk to order some herbal tea from the menu.  
  
Spock does not precisely lose track of time, but he is somewhat surprised when the meeting concludes at 1634, and not for a lack of conversation.  
  
“My study group meets at 1700,” Leonard says, looking quite apologetic and sounding regretful. It is clear he agrees with Spock’s own opinion: that their meeting has been quite satisfactory and could have gone on for quite some more time.  
  
“In that case, we shall continue this conversation at a later date. Perhaps over a shared meal?” Spock knows this to be a part of Terran courting rituals also.  
  
Leonard actually grins. Spock finds that it suits him well, much more than the scowls he seems to be used to showing for most of the day. “Yes, that would be lovely.”  
  
“If you are amenable to providing me with your contact data, I shall inquire about the exact date via communicator.”  
  
They exchange contact information and pay for their drinks. Outside the café, Leonard points behind his back with a thumb. “I’ll have to run now, I’m afraid. Sorry for not walking you back.”  
  
“It is not a problem,” Spock assures him. “I know the way.”  
  
There is a moment where nothing is said and Leonard seems to wait for something. His shoulders slump 5.4 seconds later and he turns with a wave. “Write to me,” he calls as he walks off.  
  
“I shall.”  
  
Spock does not know how long of a break is appropriate between communications, so he chooses to write to Leonard when he has returned home after grading papers in his office.  
  
  
`` _2005_  
` Leonard,`  
`I am free Monday, Wednesday and Thursday nights. Please inform me about your prefered date and time and I shall make reservations at a restaurant of my choice.`  
`--Spock`  
  
Leonard replies almost instantly, much to Spock’s satisfaction.  
  
  
`` _2008_  
` you’re quick! thursday sounds good to me, 1900?`  
`len`  
  
Spock blinks at the lack of capitalization, trying not to frown. He knows it is the Human way to value brevity over formality in communication, as their blatant use of contractions show.  
  
  
`` _2010_  
` Leonard,`  
`Thursday, 1900, is acceptable to me. If you are amenable to provide me with your place of residence, I shall meet you there.`  
`--Spock`  
  
Leonard does not reply for several hours. Spock has already prepared for his nightly meditation when his communicator buzzes with another message.  
  
  
`` _2353_  
` sorry, jim dragged me to a thing. that sounds lovely, i’ve attached the way to my dorm.`  
`sleep well!`  
  
Spock checks the coordinates given and is not surprised to see them belong to one of the cadet dormitory buildings.  
  
  
`` _2355_  
` Leonard,`  
`Thank you. I wish you a restful night as well.  
` `--Spock`


	5. V

The visit with Ensign Chaisawas also falls on Thursday. Spock as well as Lieutenants Bay and Zitter have come to the decision of foregoing their lunch breaks to visit the ensign at Starfleet Medical.  
  
Her face is covered in bandages as they enter, but she conveys a smile through her eyes in a way Spock has found many humans are capable of, including his own mother.  
  
He places a cactus of the echeveria agavoides variety on the table that is already covered in other examples of Earth’s various plantlife. The cactus seems to be the only one of its species, but the Ensign thanks him nevertheless. Spock is confident that he has not offended her with his choice.  
  
“How’re you feeling?” Lieutenant Zitter asks and the ensign explains about labored breathing and restorative surgery. A general air of confidence is quite obvious in the manner of her speaking in spite of her raspy voice. Spock feels a weight he cannot account for lift from his chest.  
  
“Would you prefer we wait with the continuance of the experiment until you are cleared for duty, Ensign?” he asks when a suitable pause in conversation has revealed itself.  
  
Restrained by her bandages, Chaisawas tilts her head in lieu of shaking it. “I doubt I’ll be allowed back into any lab for at least a few months, Commander. I wouldn’t want to hold up the research.”  
  
Spock accepts her logic easily. “In that case,” he replies. “I shall inquire with my colleagues whether or not a suitable assisting position will be open at that time.”  
  
Both Zitter and Bay smile at him when they leave the ensign to recover.  
  
“It means a lot to her that you’re recommending her to another experiment, Commander,” Bay tells him as they make their way downstairs in one of the elevators.  
  
“Her work has been impeccable so far. Additionally, the accident was in no way her fault,” Spock returns easily. “I see no reason not to offer her another opportunity once she has fully recovered.”  
  
They part at the entrance and Spock allows himself to think about the night’s plans with Doctor McCoy as he returns to his office. Their first meeting outside Starfleet Medical had been very enjoyable. Their conversation had been fruitful and not disturbed by the Human tendency of talking of inconsequential things to ‘break the ice’. Spock hopes for a repetition of this productivity later in the day.  
  
He arrives at the designated dormitory at 1855 and takes 3.4 minutes to find the room Leonard resides due to the illogically alloted numbering. When he knocks, there is still time to spare, but he is confident that he is not impolitely early and Leonard will be ready to depart.  
  
The door opens, however, not to reveal Leonard but the blond cadet that the doctor had treated at Starfleet Medical. He is wearing only his red cadet pants and a pair of socks. His chest is completely bare and while the execution of his salute adheres perfectly to regulation, it loses much of its formality being performed without him wearing the proper attire. Indeed, Starfleet regulation specifies that out of uniform, Starfleet personnel is merely required to stand at parade rest when meeting a person in authority, not salute.  
  
“Commander,” the cadet greets him with a bright smile and steps aside. “Come in, come in. Bones is still in the bathroom freaking out over his hair. Can I offer you something to drink?”  
  
Spock steps inside the room and finds it to be an odd juxtaposition. The room contains two regulation beds, two desks, two chairs, two shelves and two small wardrobes. But while one side of it is clean and organized, the other is in great disarray. Even the single couch squeezed between the desks is a dichotomy, with a neatly folded blanket on the back and a carelessly crumpled cadet jacket on one of the armrests.  
  
“The mess is all mine,” the cadet -- Jim, Spock remembers -- adds with a shrug that is likely supposed to be a kind of apology. “So, water? Tea? Or maybe some of Bones’ fancy bourbon?”  
  
“Water is adequate, thank you.”  
  
The cadet retrieves a glass from a messy shelf and fills it up with a replicated bottle of carbonated water resting on the neater one of the desks. The drink sparkles freshly as it is handed to Spock. While the cadet’s movements and gestures seem very rash, Spock can tell he is careful not to touch Spock in any way, which is quite a relief. Judging from Spock’s first impression of him, this Jim does not seem one to always adhere to protocol of any kind.  
  
“Thank you,” Spock repeats and sips at the offered water.  
 “You can sit down,” Jim offers and takes away the crumpled jacket to clean up space on the small sofa.  
  
Spock settles down, balancing the glass of water on his knee as there is no coffee table available. There is a moment of quiet only interrupted by the sound of flowing water coming from the door that is clearly the shared bathroom.  
  
Intellectually, Spock was of course aware that most human students will share a dormitory room during their time at the academy. Starfleet offers special accommodation only for species like Vulcans, who are particular about privacy and touch. In addition, Leonard had introduced Jim as his roommate.  
  
Still, it is an oddly uncomfortable thought: Leonard and this cadet Jim live together. Daily, they share those intimacies of life that on Vulcan are much more meaningful than they are on Earth. The casual way Jim has appropriated what is clearly Leonard’s water bottle but used a glass from his own, disordered shelf. His state of undress. The shared hygienic facilities.  
  
It is all rather intimate and Spock is suddenly reminded of the affectionate touches shared between this loud, messy Jim and Leonard McCoy. A hand lingering on a shoulder, an affectionate squeeze.  
  
Spock finds he has to take a deeper breath than usual to keep his systems running optimally.  
  
“What is it you’re teaching, Commander?” Jim says, clearly set on the Human custom of small talk. “I don’t think I ever had the opportunity to be in one of your classes.”  
  
“I am teaching the Golic language, Vulcan biology, several general scientific introduction classes as well as three courses in advanced computer programming.”  
  
“That’s an interesting combination,” Jim says, proving how very small Human small talk actually is by conveying no useful information other than his personal and irrelevant opinion on Spock’s choice of teaching subjects.  
  
“Indeed,” he says nonetheless, simply to adhere to the required fluency of Human conversation.  
  
After 13 seconds of silence, Jim opens his mouth again, possibly to ask another question, but he is interrupted by the bathroom door sliding open and admitting a half-dressed Leonard McCoy. Just like the other cadet, he is wearing only a pair of pants and thus displaying his chest. It is toned and, quite logically, less tanned than this arms.  
  
“Jim, what in hell’s name happened to my razor, I can’t--” He stops abruptly when his eyes fall on Spock sitting on the sofa. “Spock! Damn, is it 1900 already?”  
  
“It is 1907 now,” Spock informs him and stands.  
  
“Really? Ah, God, I’m sorry, my shift’s been running late -- again, I might add, even though I told them I had something coming up -- so I’ve only just got around to taking a shower--”  
  
“Do not concern yourself, Leonard,” Spock smoothly interrupts. “It is of no consequence. Even leaving at 1920, we shall still arrive in time for the reservation. I believe there is a ten-minute reprieve.”  
  
“Well, that’s a relief.” Leonard pauses and his eyes settle on the mess that is his roommate’s bed. “Damn it, Jim, didn’t I tell you to clean this up? I’m really sorry, Spock, I hadn’t planned on spending any more than a minute here.”  
  
“Do not concern yourself,” Spock repeats. “I am in no way offended. However, if you do not return to getting dressed, we might be late after all.”  
  
“Razor’s in the upper left shelf of the cupboard,” Jim adds and Leonard disappears into the bathroom after scowling at Jim for good measure.  
  
Spock sits back down.  
  
“Well,” Jim says. “I’ve never seen him this worked-up over a date. You’re lucky, Commander.”  
  
Spock does not particularly care for hearing about Leonard’s previous dates -- or Jim’s knowledge of them. When he does not reply, the cadet apparently is satisfied to sit by his disorderly desk and immerse himself in the contents of a PADD instead of insisting on further conversation.  
  
Spock calmly finishes his glass of water.  
  
Leonard emerges from the bathroom at 1915, clearly freshly shaven and properly dressed. “Ready,” he says with a half-smile, reaching for the wallet resting on his desk. “We can go now.”  
  
They depart, but only after Jim inappropriately holds on to Leonard’s arm, pulls him down onto his level and whispers something into his ear not even Spock can quite pick up on. At any rate, he is too shocked by the way the cadet’s lips openly brush against Leonard’s ear-shell as the information is conveyed in secret.  
  
“Shut up,” is Leonard’s reply as he straightens, but he curls a hand around Jim’s bare shoulder and squeezes it before turning to Spock. His fingertips brush along the light skin, undoubtedly painting a fine line of warmth on Jim’s upper arm.  
  
Spock cannot deny added stiffness to his movements as Leonard and he depart together.  
  
He has chosen a restaurant which he has visited by himself or with Captain Pike many times before and knows to have a large variety of vegetarian and vegan dishes. They settle down at their table and are offered menu PADDs, but Spock finds that his thoughts are not on his meal choices, neither are they on the light conversation Leonard has initiated.  
  
Rather, they are on cadet Jim’s mouth touching Leonard’s ear and the nonchalance with which the doctor has accepted his attentions, returned them even, right in front of Spock.  
  
At some point, Leonard stops talking about his day at the hospital and falls silent. He looks at Spock over the menu, brow furrowed, and after they have placed their orders on their PADDs, Leonard asks: “What’s going on? You okay there?”  
  
“Why do you ask?” Spock returns, possibly only because he knows mentioning any of his current thoughts would be inappropriate in this setting.  
  
“You’re quiet, is all.”  
  
Spock does not twist his mouth in distaste at Leonard’s grammar as a Human would, but he can understand the urge. Has the doctor always talked this way? Of course, Spock has picked up on his particular accent, but it seemed intellectually interesting before. A linguistic variety. Now, it sounds odd, strange, foreign. Better suited to another Human, certainly. The cadet Jim also displayed a very slight accent of his own, had he not?  
  
“Vulcans do not talk casually like Humans do.”  
  
“You seemed to do all right last time.”  
  
“Indeed? Perhaps, there had been other factors involved.”  
  
Their entire meal passes in silence. By the end of it, Leonard is frowning openly, not unlike the scowl he had displayed at his roommate over the missing razor.  
  
“Look,” he finally says. “Maybe, this wasn’t a good idea after all.”  
  
Spock nods, only once. “Perhaps,” he acknowledges.  
  
Leonard grows very still, then scrapes his chair when he stands. “Look,” he says again, as if Spock were not looking already. “I don’t know what’s going on, really, but I won’t put up with it. If you’ve changed your mind, the polite, _Human_ thing to do would be to tell me instead of sitting there all quiet and stuck-up.”  
  
Spock is aware some of the other patrons are watching them. Leonard has raised his voice quite above the norm for an eating establishment such as this.  
  
“As I am not Human,” he returns evenly, “it would only be logical to assume that this does not apply to me.”  
  
Leonard takes a large breath, as if preparing for a shout. Then, he deflates and shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his reddened face.  
  
“Right,” he says, removes his wallet from a pocket and swipes his credit chip over the sensor by his table. “Right. Goodbye, then.”  
  
He leaves with steps that can only be described as angry stomping. Spock calmly pays for his own meal and leaves, conscious of the lingering looks offered by the other patrons.


	6. VI

Spock does not see or hear from the doctor for precisely five days. By then, he is confident that he has put the matter at rest with ample amounts of meditation.  
  
While his father has found an outstanding Human individual suited to be a Vulcan’s mate, it is clear Spock should not have hoped to be offered the same chance. By the end, Leonard McCoy had proven himself an unbalanced and even slightly xenophobic individual. Certainly not a suitable romantic candidate for Spock. Perhaps Humans as a whole are simply not compatible enough, even despite Spock’s mixed heritage. Additionally, just because the arranged betrothal failed when Spock was seven years of age, it must not mean another, more suitable Vulcan mate cannot be found for him.  
  
Convinced that he has calmed his mind and put this unfortunate deviation behind himself, it is more than a bit surprising that his heart seems to beat arhythmically for three beats when his communicator lights up, showing Leonard McCoy’s name on the display.  
  
  
`` _1458_  
` Hey… i’m feeling bad about how we parted and i thought i could ignore it, but it’s not working out so well. i was hoping we could maybe talk about it? in person?`  
  
Spock stares at his communicator in a manner quite unbecoming of a Vulcan fully in control of his emotions. He then puts down the device, only to pick it up again 17 seconds later.  
  
He is not prepared for this and he cannot deny that is has shaken him. Eventually, he starts to compose a reply, only to realize he does not know what to say. Does he want to ‘talk about it’? He had thought the matter finished, after all.  
  
Leonard’s request is not unreasonable, however. If he is suffering from emotional distress due to their discordial parting, it would not be within the teachings of Surak to deny him relief. Malice is not logical, no matter the circumstances.  
  
  
`` _1526_  
` Leonard,`  
`I am amenable to your request. Please specify a time and place and I shall see that I am available to you.`  
`--Spock`  
  
The response is almost instant.  
  
  
`` _1528_  
` great!! are you free tonight by any chance? i have a shift at 2000 but i have a bit of spare time between 1830 and then.`  
  
Spock decides that, in this instance, grading papers does not take precedence.  
  
  
`` _1531_  
` Leonard,`  
`1830 is suitable to me. As you have not specified a place, I propose my office as a meeting point. You can retrieve its exact location via the academy databases.`  
`--Spock`  
  
There is no further response, which Spock takes as acquiescence.  
  
During the next three hours, four cadets seek him out over academic matters. He also has a stimulating conversation with Cadet Uhura, head of the linguistics club and surprisingly fluent in Golic for a Human of her age. She leaves when Spock declines an offer to attend the academy dining hall together for dinner by telling her that he is expecting another visitor.  
  
When Cadet Uhura leaves, Leonard McCoy is already waiting outside the room. He is wearing his cadet reds, telling Spock that he has most likely just returned from class. His hat is crumpled in his left hand as he enters the office. There is a medium-sized duffel bag resting over his shoulder and, as always, his face shows signs of great fatigue. His red-rimmed eyes are moving as he is looking around the room warily and it is only then that Spock realizes that his choice of setting might not have been ideal.  
  
As Spock is in no way related to teaching the advanced medical branch of Starfleet, issues of rank have been secondary to their meetings so far. Now, emphasis lies on their difference in status. Spock makes a point to stand and approach the doctor in lieu of sitting behind the desk. This, he hopes, will dampen the effect of intimidation Leonard must undoubtedly feel.  
  
“Hi,” Leonard greets him tentatively, standing stiffly by one of the visitor’s chairs.  
  
Spock inclines his head and gestures towards the chair. “Please sit down, Leonard.”  
  
Leonard does and Spock follows suit, occupying the other visitor’s chair after turning it so that it faces Leonard rather than the desk. Leonard follows his example.  
  
There is a moment of silence in which Leonard does not meet Spock’s eyes and Spock finds himself occupied wondering what the duffel bag now resting on the floor might contain. Most likely, judging from its size and Leonard’s schedule, it is a change of clothes for work and PADDs for class.  
  
“So,” Leonard finally says, clearing his throat and focusing on a spot somewhere behind Spock. An avoidance technique Spock has seen employed often by his students if they are feeling insecure about their answer. “I guess… well. I wanted to apologize. For the way I left. It was childish and you didn’t deserve that just because the evening turned out a bit awkward.”  
  
Spock inclines his head. “I was not offended by your manner of leaving. Rather, it was the insinuation that my behavioral patterns were inappropriate because they did not align with those of a Human. This statement had unpleasantly xenophobic undertones.”  
  
“Yeah.” Leonard’s cheeks redden considerably, but he is now meeting Spock’s eyes. “I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t want to-- hell, I’ve got no problem with you being Vulcan. Obviously, I mean -- damn it. Just, I’m sorry I offended you. Really.”  
  
“I accept your apology.”  
  
Leonard lets out a sigh, runs his free hand through his hair. The other is still curled around his hat, though his grip has loosened considerably. There is another moment of silence in which Leonard fidgets on the chair while looking at Spock expectantly.  
  
“Was there something else you wished to discuss?” Spock finally asks.  
  
“Something else--? Well, yes.” He stops, frowning. “Don’t tell me Vulcans don’t do apologies.”  
  
“While regret is illogical, voicing a statement of commiseration or an admittance of guilt is not by itself unreasonable.”  
  
“So you _do_ do apologies.”  
  
“I believe that is the sentiment I was conveying, yes.”  
  
Leonard’s frown deepens. “So it isn’t a matter of not doing apologies as much as you not wanting to apologize.”  
  
“Apologize for what, exactly, Leonard?”  
  
“For what exactly--?” Leonard sputters, turning red again. “Why, I can’t-- For being dismissive and not telling me why, maybe? For brushing me off without so much as a word of explanation?”  
  
Spock thinks this over. It is true he could have explained the reasons for his sudden distaste at the prospect of meeting with Leonard in this particular way. It seemed inappropriate, however, to openly accuse Leonard of being affectionate with his roommate while pursuing a romantic attachment with Spock, especially in a public place. Vulcans are a private race.  
  
Yet, it is clear Leonard does not know that what he has done has offended Spock on a most intimate level.  
  
“I was no longer convinced of your exclusive interest in my person,” he offers.  
  
Leonard’s frown does not vanish. “My what?” He blinks several times, pressing his lips together for three seconds before releasing them again. “Could you expand on that, by any chance?”  
  
“You have, I believe, made an offer of exclusive interest by starting a courting process with me. However, you have also openly displayed a very intimate kind of affection towards your roommate Jim.”  
  
“Hang on,” Leonard says, eyes widening. “This is about Jim?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Much to Spock’s surprise, Leonard starts laughing.  
  
“I fail to see how this situation might be amusing,” Spock speaks over the hiccups.  
  
“No, but-- God.” Leonard is clearly having trouble breathing and there is moisture gathering in his eyes. “Seriously, I’m not laughing at you, just-- give me a moment!”  
  
He calms himself within fourteen seconds, though his voice still sounds slightly wheezy as he says: “I’m sorry. It’s just that the only person that ever seems to get into trouble for Jim’s and my -- what did you say? ‘Intimate kind of affection? -- well. The one who usually gets into trouble for that is Jim, not me.”  
  
“Indeed?” Spock says for the lack of a proper reply. Leonard’s statement does not seem very logical or informative beyond the fact that his relationship with Jim has caused problems before. In which case maintaining it seems rather illogical, although emotions are of course much more vital in Human relationships than reason.  
  
“Indeed!” Leonard mimics him. “You see, Jim Kirk is the most blatant womanizer -- and manizer, and peoplenizer, for equality’s sake -- that you will ever meet. If you’re alive, of age and able to give consent, chances are you’re game. However, people seem to regularly believe that he’s cheating on me with them --or on them with me, if they’re a bit delusional. I’ve heard more varieties of ‘You’re an asshole, Kirk!’ screamed over the campus than I can count.”  
  
“Am I to understand from this,” Spock asks carefully, “that you and Jim Kirk are not, in fact, pursuing any kind of romantic relationship?”  
  
Leonard nods with much emphasis. “Yes! Well, we’re friends. Best friends, all things considered -- and don’t tell him I said that, he’s just gonna be insufferable about it. But we’re also, hm. How do I phrase this for a Vulcan? We’re close. Like brothers, if Vulcan brothers by any chance are prone to roughhousing.”  
  
“They are not,” Spock offers.  
  
“Well, Human brothers are. Constantly bickering and trying to get one up on another, but then they end up cuddling up to each other when they’re scared.”  
  
Spock is slightly overwhelmed at this revelation. “You and Jim are also enganging in this ‘cuddling up to each other’ when you are experiencing fear?”  
  
“No!” Leonard hurries to say. “Well, not like you’re thinking. That’s just a bit of a bad example. Let’s see -- well, we hug, sometimes. Not all the time, but for special occasions, or for comfort. And we touch. A whole lot, for Vulcan standards probably far too much. I’m taking it that is what was bothering you? The physical affection?”  
  
“Yes. In particular.”  
  
“In particular? There’s more?” Leonard has retreated a bit in the chair, looking at Spock like he is expecting a severe judgment.  
  
“I am also bothered by you sharing such intimacies as using the same hygienic facilities and sleeping quarters. However, I understand it is not considered overly intimate here, especially among roommates. It is, I believe, an arrangement of living that has long traditions in higher education facilities on Earth such as Starfleet Academy.”  
  
Leonard nods. “Yes. Nobody thinks twice about it, really.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“Do you, though?” Leonard tilts his head to the side. “You’ve obviously been freaking quite a bit over the whole thing. Are we good? You no longer hate me?”  
  
“Vulcans do not hate,” Spock immediately informs him.  
  
“Of course they don’t,” Leonard says and it sounds close to a sigh. “I meant: Have we put this conflict to a rest?”  
  
“I have now gathered a better understanding of the situation,” Spock acknowledges.  
  
“But you’re not happy.” And before Spock can protest: “Sorry, sorry. What I meant is: You are not -- um, this is tough. You’re not satisfied with the situation?”  
  
“Vulcans do not share any intimacies like affectionate touches with anyone other than their mate and close family. Even then, doing so in public is considered very indecent on Vulcan.”  
  
“But you’re not on Vulcan,” Leonard states the obvious. “Neither have I got a pair of those big pointy ears.”  
  
“You are trying to convey that you are a Human working under Human norms.”  
  
Leonard smiles. “Exactly. And as we’ve already established, it’s bordering on xenophobia to try to press another species into one’s own norms.”  
  
Spock inclines his head. “I concur.”  
  
“Great.” Leonard leans forward in his chair, bringing them physically closer. “Now, where does this leave us?”  
  
“In regards to what?”  
  
“Dating, Spock. I mean you and me, trying for a fresh start.”  
  
Spock restrains himself from pointing out the utter lack of logic behind the idea of a ‘fresh start’. What has happened has happened, and the experience cannot be erased. Instead, he takes a moment to consider if he is indeed willing to continue the aborted courting process with Leonard. Clearly, there is a chance that it will continue more smoothly if they communicate more directly. Their current meeting has shown this.  
  
“I believe another date would not be without merit,” he eventually decides.  
  
Leonard’s answering smiles is one of those that seem to make the fatigue in his eyes less obvious for a moment. “Great. Really, I was afraid you’d written off us annoying Humans for good.”  
  
Spock is not comfortable sharing that he has indeed had thoughts along these very lines. “It would be illogical to dispose of another species entirely based on the actions of one member,” he voices and thus chastises his own foolishness. He should meditate on this fundamental mistake tonight.  
  
“Quite right,” Leonard agrees. “So, obviously, I’m not free tonight. But what’re you doing this weekend?”  
  
“Nothing outside of my regular duties as of yet,” Spock replies, finding himself much more relaxed than before. “And you?”


	7. VII

Their following date is very satisfactory one. As is the next. By the fifth date, Spock is no longer expecting it not to be so.  
  
For their seventh meeting, Leonard proposes choosing a more intimate setting than a public restaurant or café. Knowing Leonard’s living situation -- and also having no desire to see Jim Kirk any more than strictly necessary -- Spock invites him over to his own apartment for dinner. Leonard enthusiastically agrees, mentioning that he has not eaten a self-cooked meal ‘in ages’.  
  
While Spock does not use hyperbole in his speech, he understands that Humans rely on it to put an emotional emphasis on a statement. It is therefore obvious that Leonard is truly grateful for the opportunity to enjoy a non-replicated dish.  
  
  
`` _1211_  
  
` Leonard,`  
  
`I would be honored to prepare a traditional Vulcan meal for you. Are there any food allergies I should be conscious of before choosing a suitable dish?`  
  
`--Spock`  
  
  
  
`` _1232_  
  
` Spock, no, i’m good, seeing as my name isn’t jim. whatever you chose to do is fine, just lay off on anything resembling caraway, it’s not rly my favorite. thanks, looking forward to tomorrow!!`  
  
Spock’s eyes linger over the mention of Jim Kirk a millisecond longer than is strictly necessary. He replies:  
  
  
`` _1234_  
  
` Leonard,`  
  
`No caraway will be used in the preparation of the dish. I also anticipate your arrival.`  
  
`--Spock`  
  
He uses his free afternoon to purchase the ingredients at a gourmet food store specializing in off-planet groceries. He is gratified to find that they offer nearly all of the necessary ingredients and well-chosen substitutes for the ones they cannot so easily acquire.  
  
At 1900 the next day, Spock has prepared _plomeek_ soup as a starter and is keeping _pok tar_ warm in the oven. Leonard arrives 1901, as always quite punctual for Human standards. He offers Spock a bottle of wine produced in the region known as the state of Georgia pre-Federation, citing the Human tradition of offering the host a gift. It is not common practice on Vulcan, but Spock can appreciate the thought behind it.  
  
“Please sit down,” he says after Leonard has disposed of his shoes and jacket. “The meal is ready.”  
  
Leonard settles down while Spock opens the bottle of wine in the kitchen. He brings it to the table with two glasses, then returns briefly to the kitchen to retrieve and serve the _plomeek_ soup.  
  
“Nice place you’ve got,” Leonard states as he carefully sinks his spoon into the soup.  
  
“I find it lies within easy walking distance to the campus and also provides me with all necessary comforts while being affordable.”  
  
Leonard smiles, the spoon of soup hovering in front of his mouth. “A logical choice,” he offers before placing the soup in his mouth.  
  
At first, the widening of his eyes makes Spock believe that the Vulcan dish is not to the doctor’s liking. Instead, when he has swallowed, Leonard breaks into a bright smile. “That’s delicious!” he exclaims.  
  
Spock does not smile, but he can admit to being gratified that Leonard finds the soup to be so. “It is my mother’s recipe.”  
  
“She must be a good cook,” Leonard says in between two spoonfuls of soup.  
  
“She required a large amount of time to get used to Vulcan recipes, according to her,” Spock replies honestly. “However, as far as I can remember, I have never found her skills to be lacking in any way.”  
  
“So your mother’s the Human in the family?” Leonard deduces easily. They had as of yet not talked about their families except for very cursory comments.  
  
“Yes. My father is Vulcan, but acts as diplomat to Earth. It is how he met my mother.”  
  
“You must miss them,” Leonard states. “Your parents? How often do you see each other?”  
  
“I have not talked to either of them for four years, eleven months and sixteen days,” Spock returns calmly.  
  
“You what?” The clatter of the spoon hitting the table rings sharply in Spock’s sensitive ears. “Sorry,” Leonard apologizes automatically, picking up the spoon without even looking at it. There is a small spot of red _plomeek_ where it hit the surface. “But really? For five years?”  
  
“Roughly speaking,” Spock says and stands. “It is of no consequence.”  
  
“Of no conse-- Spock, they’re your parents! Have you argued or something? I’m sure it can’t be healthy to ignore your family for that long.”  
  
Spock does not reply until he has retrieved a cleaning rag from the kitchen. Due to its super-absorbent make-up, the spot disappears within less than a second.  
  
“Spock?” Leonard prods.  
  
Spock looks at him, noticing the look of honest concern on his face and amends: “My father did not approve of my choice in joining Starfleet. He would have preferred for me to attend the Vulcan Science Academy, for which I declined admission.”  
  
He leaves for the kitchen. Upon his return, Leonard continues his interrogation at once: “And your mother agrees with him?”  
  
“My mother voiced understanding of my choice,” Spock replies. “However, I deemed it wise not to agitate her relationship with my father by contacting her on a regular basis. She insisted on helping me move to Earth but conceded to my logic shortly after.”  
  
“And you haven’t talked to her at all?” Leonard sounds honestly scandalized now. “Not even a short message?”  
  
“I voice gratitude over those she sends on my birthday. A day that is not as valued on Vulcan as it is on Earth I might add.” Leonard opens his mouth, undoubtedly to offer further protest. “Your soup is getting cold. While it is a dish often served cold during the warmer summer months, the taste will likely be less to your liking as cool _plomeek_ turns rather bitter.”  
  
With that, Spock returns to his own meal. Leonard is wise enough to do the same and not ask any further questions regarding Spock’s family.  
  
They have just finished their soup when Leonard’s communicator rings loudly. “Sorry,” he immediately apologizes. “I’ll turn it silent now. Unless it’s a medical alert, which I can’t really switch off.”  
  
“Of course,” Spock replies and takes Leonard’s bowl. In the kitchen, he increases the heat of the oven that will heat the _pok tar_ to the appropriate serving temperature within 5.8 minutes approximately.  
  
When he returns, Leonard is looking up from his PADD with a rather pained expression. “Hey, would you mind if Jim showed up? Just for a second, he’s forgot his access chip to our room -- again, I might add -- and they’ve upped security since he last hacked his way into our dorm and threatened him with suspension.”  
  
“He broke into the dormitory locking system?” Spock asks. This piece of information only cements his belief that Jim Kirk is not fully capable of following rules and regulation.  
  
“Just once,” Leonard repeats. “He knows better now. Which is why he needs my chip. That okay with you? He won’t stay for long, I swear.”  
  
As there is no logical reason to refuse -- Spock is certain Jim Kirk’s blatant disregard for rules is not one, in this case -- he concedes. Not quite one minute later, the door bell announces the cadet’s arrival.  
  
As he has no wish to see the man, Spock returns to the kitchen to cut the _kreyla_ bread in appropriately sized pieces to scoop up the broth accompanying the vegetables of _pok tar_. However, his hearing is too sensitive not to overhear the conversation Leonard and Jim are having at the door.  
  
“Again, Jim?” Leonard asks, sounding exasperated in a way he has hardly ever been with Spock so far. “Is it too much to ask to simply leave it in your wallet or something?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Bones,” Jim returns. The faux-pleading tone of voice accompanied by the absurd nickname he favors sounds rather unpleasant to Spock. “Really, I am. But this hot Andorian I’ve been after for ages finally commed me, and I just forgot, you know? Vital to be quick, before they change their mind.”  
  
Leonard makes a noise of annoyance, but from the sounds following it is clear he is handing over his chip regardless of Jim Kirk’s latest antics.  
  
“Don’t lose this one, too,” he says. “Or I swear, I’ll beat some sense into you.”  
  
“Kinky, Bones! You wanna save that for your sexy Vulcan!”  
  
“Jim!” Leonard sounds choked as he chastises him. “He can hear you, you know?”  
  
Spock focuses on cutting the _kreyla_ into even pieces. Three centimeters precisely, he has found, will make the most ideal slices to accompany _pok tar_.  
  
“What, it’s been how many dates? Ten? Surely you’ve gotten some action by now.”  
  
The bread, Spock finds, it slightly harder than usual. His estimate is a 3.8 percent increase.  
  
“It’s none of your business. Now get out of here.”  
  
Maybe, the grain imported to make the flour and, in extent, the bread was of mediocre quality.  
  
“That’s the sound of a desperate man, buddy. Not even a little kissing? No? Hell, even we two had more action than you guys.”  
  
Spock’s hand jerks abruptly, which results in the knife cutting sharply into his left forefinger. Green blood rises immediately to the surface.  
  
“Goodbye, Jim.” The door slides shut.  
  
Spock has not even managed to turn to the bathroom to see to his cut when Leonard enters the kitchen.  
  
“God, I’m so sorry, he’s such an idiot and-- what the hell happened, is that blood?” he says and immediately approaches Spock. “You’ve cut yourself?”  
  
“It is not a severe wound,” Spock returns. “I can tend to it myself.”  
  
“Not with a doctor in the apartment, you won’t. A dirty knife can carry all sorts of bacteria, I’ll have you know. Let me have a look!”  
  
He has already stretched out his hand in an almost possessive gesture when he stops in mid-air. He throws Spock a look, the concern on his face mingling with hesitation. “Damn,” he says. “I don’t have gloves on me. D’you mind if I just … ?” He waves his hand in what is apparently supposed to be a request for Spock’s consent to touch.  
  
Spock is inclined to refuse, if only due to what Jim Kirk has just revealed. However, it is illogical to refuse the help of a qualified doctor when one is available, so Spock gently places his bleeding hand on Leonard’s outstretched palm.  
  
A wave of concern mingled with hints of subsiding annoyance rushes through him. Spock increases the strength of his shields at once -- something he should have done before touching the doctor. Clearly, additional meditation is again required. Spock has noted a 48.9 percent increase in his meditative needs since their first meeting.  
  
Leonard carefully inspects the cut. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he amends, his fingers incredibly gentle against Spocks. “Just missed the nail bed, that could’ve been nasty. Just let me scan this for any foreign matter lodged into place. If it checks out, I think I have a small regenerator in my bag.”  
  
It turns out that, next to a small tricorder and a regenerator, Leonard carries several hypos with him as well. “I would’ve had gloves, too,” he says by way of apology. “But Jim-- well. Hadn’t had the chance to replace them yet.”  
  
“It is of no consequence,” Spock says. The shields he has in place filter the brunt of Leonard’s emotions. All he is left with is a warm presence where his mind is leaning slightly against Spock’s. It feels -- not unpleasant.  
  
“Readings look fine,” Leonard announces and regenerates the cut without further talking. “There we go.”  
  
“Thank you,” Spock says. “The _pok tar_ has remained in the oven 4.1 minutes too long. I will have to see if it is still edible.”  
  
It is, so Spock serves it while Leonard repacks his bag. When they sit down for the main course, there is once more quiet between them. Spock anticipates a repetition of the events of their second meeting, if only because he feels equally unable to voice his discomfort at Jim Kirk’s revelation.  
  
However, Leonard is much more direct in his approach to the problem tonight.  
  
“So, I guess you heard what Jim said there,” he says.  
  
“Vulcan ears are very sensitive, as you well know.”  
  
“Yes, I do know.” He runs a piece of _kreyla_ through the broth collecting at the sides of his plate, but does not place it in his mouth. It turns soggy almost at once. “You wanna know the details or would you rather I leave for now?”  
  
Spock pauses, his stomach clenching in spite of his Vulcan control. “So there is truth to his statement?”  
  
Leonard nods at his plate. “Yeah. I didn’t lie to you though, about us being platonic. It was more of a -- well. We were both drunk and in need of comfort. Besides, it was a big while ago. Over a year, at least.”  
  
Spock does not know what to say to that particular revelation.  
  
“I’m taking it you have a hard time processing that.”  
  
“I am indeed not quite grasping the concept of a kiss being platonic unless it is shared between relatives. I am aware of traditions akin to this on Earth, but I doubt it is what your roommate referred to at the time.”  
  
“No, it was a real kiss all right. It just-- it didn’t lead to anything, and we both agreed that it was a pretty bad idea. That we didn’t feel about each other that way. Besides, I was just recovering from my divorce, so …”  
  
As usual, Leonard shows open signs of discomfort when he mentions his former wife. Spock has never asked for more details than Leonard volunteered. The information on the topic was limited at best. Now, however, it seems like Leonard is ready to give Spock a better idea of what the divorce entailed.  
  
“Look, I know this is difficult for you to understand. Human friendships, and being close, and all that, I do. But if there’s one thing you can be sure of, it is that I would never betray you like this, having feelings for another and still pursue you. Jocelyn -- my ex-wife.” A pause, and a deep breath. “She cheated on me. That’s the main reason we broke up, that she found somebody else, and didn’t have the decency to tell me first before approaching it. It was-- well. Not a marriage that ended well, I’ll say.”  
  
Spock takes a few seconds to process what he heard. There is genuine hurt on Leonard’s face -- clearly, the topic of his ex-wife’s unfaithfulness is still a tender, emotional topic. Yet, in the face of another argument regarding his relationship with Jim Kirk, he has decided to share a fact about his marriage in order to ease Spock’s concerns.  
  
It is, to Spock, quite obviously a step one would only take if one were committed to the courtship at hand.  
  
“I understand,” he says and calmly puts down his cutlery. “I apologize if I have caused you distress with my concerns about Cadet Kirk. You have made clear you are not interested in him and I will accept that statement as truth.”  
  
Leonard smiled. “Yeah? Well, good. That’s great, really. I mean, I know relationships like ours-- they’re difficult, of course they are, all the cultural stuff, but I really--” He broke off, scratching his neck and averting his gaze. “I really like you. I think this could work, it feels rights, for the lack of a more logical expression. Don’t you agree?”  
  
Spock nods. “I also believe we are compatible, despite our different heriatage.”  
  
Leonard’s smile brightens. He looks, Spock can admit to himself, very handsome in that moment. Maybe, it is time to become more intimately involved at this point -- if only to make his claim clear to Cadet Kirk, who clearly stated that he did not consider their relationship valid without a kiss having taken place.  
  
“Leonard,” Spock says, lifting two fingers and offering it to him over the table.  
  
Leonard blinks. “Hm?”  
  
“A Vulcan kiss,” Spock explains. “Simply mirror the position of my fingers, and I shall take the lead.”  
  
“Oh.” Hesitantly, Leonard offers his fingers to Spock in the same position.  
  
Bracing himself, Spock connects their fingers and traces Leonard’s with his own. A rush of warmth mingled with confusion tingles at this shields. It is clear Leonard is unsure about this sort of kiss, but understands the meaning if not the intimacy of it.  
  
Spock stops when the time of contact borders on inappropriate.  
  
“That was-- different,” Leonard notes as he retrieves his fingers.  
  
“But enjoyable?”  
  
“Yes. The touch-- it’s special for you, is it not? Skin-on-skin, the movement?”  
  
“Very much so.”  
  
Leonard smiles. “Then that is what counts.”  
  
“Perhaps we can try the Human approach during our next meeting.”  
  
Leonard’s smile turns into a grin. “Yes,” he says, excitement in his voice. “Yes, that would be great.”


End file.
